Eraser crumbs and faded pencil lines leave scars deep in the art. Painted over with bold bright strokes can't hide where they are or what she has changed.
Arm and mind tired of scrubbing the blunders from the paper. Crumpled towels stained with ink and paint and frustration where she tried to dab away the missed strokes and ugly lines. Eye sometimes deceived when she tried to envision art and write that vision onto a page. The colors didn't always mix well together and some of her lines were anything but straight. Brush stroke bleeds into pencil lines and make the picture murky, nothing like the masterpiece she began.
Nothing like she hoped it would be.
And in wiping redemption from the paper, she signed ruin on the art.
Dozens of answers to questions what should she do with it, all splattered onto page like a shattered color wheel slipped past its confines.
Wipes a bead of water from her face, smearing red in a bristled wound, hands dyed with the colors of her mistakes, scattered in brushes and tubes and pencils and charcoal on the floor. Some places worn so thin, a slight shift and they will tear the whole piece apart. Sigh escapes lips and fist closes over throat, eyes dart over the artwork in front of her, into which she has poured her whole life, painting hopes and fears and risks and dreams in hundreds of shades.
Pouring red in her anger on the canvas, weeping blue in her pain, dancing pinks and golds and greens in her joy and happiness, wisping white in her uncertainty and innocence, driving black in her darkness and depth.
Black and white fade to gray over time and sharp lines become blurred.
Now it is chaos.
Messy, imperfect, evolving.
Like her life.
All of it poured out onto a canvas, unfinished.
Takes step back, wipes hands on rag, skin freckled with colors sprung from her tools.
Standing back she sees it more clearly now.
Colors mixed all together make something whole and unique and different and beautiful. Scarred lines and erasers etch depth in the art and her heart. A liquid mosaic. Something chaotic, imperfect, evolving.
Something beautiful.
Like her life.
Arm and mind tired of scrubbing the blunders from the paper. Crumpled towels stained with ink and paint and frustration where she tried to dab away the missed strokes and ugly lines. Eye sometimes deceived when she tried to envision art and write that vision onto a page. The colors didn't always mix well together and some of her lines were anything but straight. Brush stroke bleeds into pencil lines and make the picture murky, nothing like the masterpiece she began.
Nothing like she hoped it would be.
And in wiping redemption from the paper, she signed ruin on the art.
Dozens of answers to questions what should she do with it, all splattered onto page like a shattered color wheel slipped past its confines.
Wipes a bead of water from her face, smearing red in a bristled wound, hands dyed with the colors of her mistakes, scattered in brushes and tubes and pencils and charcoal on the floor. Some places worn so thin, a slight shift and they will tear the whole piece apart. Sigh escapes lips and fist closes over throat, eyes dart over the artwork in front of her, into which she has poured her whole life, painting hopes and fears and risks and dreams in hundreds of shades.
Pouring red in her anger on the canvas, weeping blue in her pain, dancing pinks and golds and greens in her joy and happiness, wisping white in her uncertainty and innocence, driving black in her darkness and depth.
Black and white fade to gray over time and sharp lines become blurred.
Now it is chaos.
Messy, imperfect, evolving.
Like her life.
All of it poured out onto a canvas, unfinished.
Takes step back, wipes hands on rag, skin freckled with colors sprung from her tools.
Standing back she sees it more clearly now.
Colors mixed all together make something whole and unique and different and beautiful. Scarred lines and erasers etch depth in the art and her heart. A liquid mosaic. Something chaotic, imperfect, evolving.
Something beautiful.
Like her life.
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